


Sugarcoat

by CypressSunn



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A cherry stem gets tied in a knot because Matt Murdock is the actual devil, Coffee, Diners, Eat Drink And Make Merry, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CypressSunn/pseuds/CypressSunn
Summary: “You’re right about our irreconcilable differences. I’dneverdrink coffee with that much creamer.”
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 9
Kudos: 102
Collections: 101 Prompts Meme, Eat Drink and Make Merry 2020





	Sugarcoat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kameiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kameiko/gifts).



> Written for the Eat Drink And Make Merry Exchange. I chose the additional genre _Sweet_ over _Spicy_ or _Sour_ for our boys because they deserve a little sugar on their caffeine break.
> 
> Happy reading!

With his lips to the rim of his coffee cup, Matt smiles to himself. “You know what they call this place, right?”

Frank crumples up his napkin. Matt can tell from the slight flinch of movement in his wrist that he’s rethinking throwing it at him. The diner they are seated in isn’t much to the eyes, or any of the other senses. Old smelling decor from all the worn out plastic seating. A film of residue that doesn’t wipe off the plastic encased menus. Grumbling waitstaff and too many sounds of nearby traffic rumbling in. The odd patrons at odd hours, feet stuck to the sticky linoleum. The oddest of which were certainly Mister Mudock, esquire, and his dining companion Pete No-Last-Name-Please-And-Thank-You.

“It's called Twenty-Four Hour Eats,” Frank jabs a wooden coffee stirrer in the direction of the front entrance. “Says right there on the door.”

“That's only what the tourists call it. All the real New Yorkers know better.”

“That so?”

“Very much so.”

Frank bites into another paper sugar packet and pours its sweet, sweet contents into his steaming cup. “You have until I finish this cup to get to your point. So, Red, tell me what don’t I know about this place?”

“It just so happens, Frank, that this fine establishment is the source of an urban legend. You won’t find its real name on a map or any of those Top Ten Tastes of New York articles. But everyone from the old guard to college punks knows the real name. The Hell’s Kitchenette Diner.”

Frank does his best not to chuckle into his coffee.

“It’s said that these doors never close. Not once in forty years has it ever shuttered for business.”

“Is that when they last renovated?”

“No force, natural or unnatural, from gentrification to alien invasion, has ever once kept the steady clientele of hungry stomachs and lousy tippers from marching up to these countertops.”

“Well, counselor, if I may have the floor,” Frank scratches his three in the AM o’clock shadow. “I call bullshit.”

“Would I lie to you, Frank?” Matt asks, straight faced as the devil. His bottom lip is bruised and this close to bleeding. There’s matching still fresh scrapes along his hairline. The hired mooks Fisk sent from jail had cracked him over the head good. At least the swelling had gone down; Frank had slipped the fry cook a couple twenties for a frozen bag of chicken tenders to use an as icepack.

“You lie for a living,” Frank scoffs, “you’re a _lawyer_.”

“Me, committing perjury? Never. I’m the most honest attorney in the city.”

“Then you’d be the real urban myth. And that's before we bring the horns into the equation.”

Matt laughs, low from the back of his throat. He keeps at it, saying, “Polly says it's the smell of the bacon grease that keeps the locals coming back.”

“Hm. No one can resist an air of cured, salted pig fat.”

“They order it special. Some farm upstate.”

“Fancy.” Frank shakes his cup at Matt. He’s no stranger to shooting the breeze with Red these days, but this tangent going nowhere makes him wonder if he really does need that head-wound checked. “One good swallow left,” he warns.

“It doesn't take heightened senses to know you don't believe me. But it still makes you think; as creatures of habit, what keeps bringing us back here?”

Frank straightens on his stool. “Easy exits, sight-line to the street, no security cameras, inattentive staff, they never learn names, and no off-duty cops in the booths. They prefer the diner a couple blocks down with the liquor license. All in all, that makes this a prime place to drag your ass when you’ve gotten the shit kicked out of you.”

“I think it was me who brought you here first. Claire stopped taking your late night calls and I had to stitch up your shoulder in the men’s room.” Matt can hear ruffling clothing as Frank runs his hands over his deltoid, the place where the wound had been.

“I wouldn't brag about these stitches if I was you. I could have done better blindfolded.”

“Insulting my seamstress skills. You really are looking for a fight tonight.”

Frank snorts. “Don’t have to look for them. They always find me.” Not that Frank is unfamiliar with trying to get a rise out of Red. Not looking to be combative but testing the waters of this strange armistice they find themselves in. Otherwise, the need to rush in and pursue violence in a city like this really only presented itself when the Devil he’d come to know and love so well was being unbelievably stupid. Refusing to call for backup from his _Defender_ friends or whatever the papers were calling them these days. But he doesn’t need to know that. Frank still isn’t drinking his last dregs of coffee. It’s gone cold in the cup. 

“The way I see it. You and me, we come here and we come down from the fight. A little groggy, a little punch drunk, and we wait it all out safely, away from anyone it might hurt. We come here because it works. And we’ll come here until it doesn’t.”

“Meaning?”

“You know what I mean, Red.”

“Humor me.”

“All I’ve done is humor you,” Frank pushes back from the table, “and I’m all out of coffee.”

“Oh, are you?” 

Frank looks down at his mug and sees it has been refilled to the brim. He doesn’t look up but he knows Matt is smirking. 

“Gotta watch out for Polly and that speedy pour. She’s like a ninja, and I’ve met _actual_ ninjas…”

Resigned, and perhaps a little relieved, Frank sits back down. He reaches for the creamer. He’s never been one to let good coffee go to waste. Three pumps, french vanilla. One, then two packets of sweetener. A little sugar helps the pain go down. He'd heard that somewhere.

“Tell me what you meant, Frank.”

“You know what I mean. _You know,_ Red.” The heat on Frank’s face isn’t from the coffee. “You know it’s hard to believe you and me are gonna keep at _this_. That we’re going to tallying up the nights, wasting time until it has to stop. We can’t sit in this diner forever, drinking coffee, taking turns picking up the tab, acting like we don’t have irreconcilable differences.”

Frank knocks back the rest of the coffee. He could still go. He has no desire to wait around, all addled and flustered from his admission. Why should he wait here for the Devil to be the one to pull the plug?

But Matt’s hand reaches out, slow and steady. Out of muscle memory, his fingers trace the stitching on Frank’s shoulder.

“You’re right about our irreconcilable differences. I’d _never_ drink coffee with that much creamer.”

“Well, we can’t all share you deep-seated desire for punishment, now can we? You beat down your taste buds the same way you like getting your skull caved in; its all masochism.” Matt titters something heated under his breath and Frank would give anything to hear him. He still hasn’t relinquished his touch, causing Frank’s shoulders to slump; he wants to pull away from the touch and lean into it with equal measure.

“What happens when it stops being enough? When the wisecracks and the commiserating and the coffee don’t cut it anymore? What then, Red?”

Matt thinks for a moment. “Then we switch to milkshakes.”

“Milkshakes?” Frank repeats. Hardly the solution to their deadlocked morality crisis.

“They’ve got the best in the city here, or so I’ve heard. At least according to the sign they read to me once. Really, I just hear the buzzing neon.”

“Then somebody lied to you, Red. That neon sign is advertising all you can eat fries.”

“The audacity of them, lying to a blind man…” Matt’s face is twisted in mock aghast. “But I still think I want that milkshake. So what do you say, Frank? We go fifty-fifty, split the difference. Throw in a side of fries. Forget the rest.”

“That’ll be the day, Red.” Forgetting sounds too good, like a promise neither of them can keep. Because one day Daredevil would find a fight in this city he could not finish and the Punisher would be there. Ready to do whatever it takes. There would be no forgiveness and he could accept that. At least, he was mostly sure he could.

But Matt does not seem ready to dwell on it. Instead he smiles with teeth. “Polly, we’ll take a peanut butter milkshake. Two straws, please.” He holds up as man fingers. Frank groans imperceptibly, knowing the Devil can hear him. “Actually, make it a vanilla.”

The towering ice cream shoppe chalice arrives cold and frosty, filled with frothy cream. There’s a gluttonous litter of sprinkles on top, and a wedge of chocolate dipped graham cracker sticking out of the side. A single, bright red cherry rests on top of the sugary display. Matt plucks off the stem and leaves the sweet fruit on the tip of Frank’s tongue. Frank watches the Devil turn that stem over and over in his mouth, behind his teeth until he presents the perfectly tied knot. Frank feels a hunger rumble through him, but its not from his sweet tooth.

“We should pay our bill.” Matt says when they’re halfway finished drinking. “My place is closer.”

“I’ll get the tab this time,” Frank waves over Polly, still carrying her trusty pot of coffee. “I’m sure we’ll think of some way for you to repay me.”

  
  


**_fin._ **

**Author's Note:**

> Additional 101 Prompt, 53: Vanilla.


End file.
